Page 18 of Gemini Queen
“Ronin, I’m sorry.” My fangs distort my speech, but I’m still too stirred up to retract them. “Dear God, I’m so sorry—”
“Shut up.” His head turns toward me, our mouths an inch apart, and it’s all I can manage not to close the distance.
“Ronin…” I whisper, our breaths mingling. My eyes close tight in a bid for restraint that I’m fairly certain I’m losing.
“Lucius,” he pants against my mouth. “Please don’t stop. I want this. I wantyou. D’you have any blooming idea how much I want you?”
His tongue slicks across my lower lip, still dripping with his blood, and laps at my massive fangs. My wolf goes wild for him, tearing at my skin. My body quakes with a surge of primal need—
“I’m not actually sure I want to stop the two of you, because that’s hella hot to watch.”
The words wrap around me, but it’s not Ronin saying them. That husky female voice behind me indubitably belongs to Zarina Gemini.
My eyes snap open and I freeze where I stand, hands braced against the wall, Ronin’s body wrapped tight around me, a heartbeat before I would have committed the irrevocable violation of kissing my student senseless. This student I’ve barely avoided violating opens his eyes and our gazes lock. His tawny orbs cloud with desire and regret.
“Some other life?” Zarina’s tone hardens. “I might even be up for joining. But what I really want right now is pretty basic.”
I turn my head away from Ronin, his blood still running down my chin, to find the Gemini heir on her feet in my Oxford shirt, hair wild around her shoulders, barefoot and naked from the panties down, sleek legs a mile long and braced for combat, capable hands wrapped around the hilt of that katana.
Over the deadly blade, her turquoise eyes rivet me, fearless and lethal. “Okay, Fangs, let’s hear it. Where in the freaking hell am I?”
Chapter Nine
Zara
I’m 99.8 percent sure I’ve never fought my way out of a position this humiliating in my entire life.
I’m standing here barefoot in microscopic lace panties and some guy’s starched shirt, the soft hum of jet engines vibrating though my soles, with my throat dry and my head pounding and an antique katana I pulled down from the wall for defense.
And, hello, did I mention I’m on a freakingairplane? An airplane I never agreed to board? An airplane posh enough to be some English lord’s library? I’m surrounded by dark-paneled wood and antique books, smelling like leather and brandy and fresh-spilled blood.
That gory bite on Ronin’s shoulder looks ouchy, and it’s still oozing a trickle of blood over his inked-up skin. But his eyes are glowing like magma, the way they did when the two of us got busy. I’m guessing that happens whenever he’s turned on. Because when I clawed my way to the surface of the effed-up quicksand of my dreams, Ronin was literally climbing the other guy’s body like a ladder and pretty much dry-humping him.
While the other guy in this scenario, the one who’s dressed like an Oxford don in pressed shirt and silk tie and houndstooth pants, is basically standing there staring at me like a vampire with fangs a mile long, Ronin’s blood still running down his chin, and glowing red eyes like Gary Oldman inBram Stoker’sDracula.
Shit. I never knew vampires were even a thing—
Ronin clears his throat and pushes away from the wall. “For fuck’s sake. He isn’t a vampire. He’s a fucking shifter.”
Reading my mind again. Yep, that’s definitely part of his repertoire of warlock superpowers.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters, stalking past me with a glare. “Didn’t they teach you anything growing up at the casino, love?”
“They taught me that power turns men into monsters and there’s a reason they burned witches at the stake.” I refuse to be embarrassed by my ignorance. I don’t need to impress either one of them. It’s not like I’m here by choice. Hell, maybe if they decide I’m hopeless enough, I won’t have to fight my way out of the Icarus Academy by force.
Since it’s pretty obvi that’s where these two circus freaks think they’re taking me.
The vampire… oh, pardon me,shifter… removes a monogrammed handkerchief (of all things) from the tweed coat folded over the chair and pats gently at his gory mouth. By the time he folds the handkerchief and tucks it away, his fangs have retracted and his eyes are lightening from that awful glaring red to kind of an aged whiskey. He smooths both hands over the chestnut curls tumbled around his face and ties everything back neatly in a civilized tail at his nape. Then he claims the brandy snifter on the desk and takes a few genteel sips.
This whole time, he’s watching me.
And I’m sure as shit watching him. Because now I realize he’s the wolf who took me out on Wang’s penthouse roof. I’ve never actually seen a purebred shifter before, because they’re practically extinct.
But judging by the power dynamic I’m picking up between him and Ronin, it’s Fangs over there who’s running this show.
This guy’s easy on the eyes in an elegantDownton Abbeykind of way, tall and pale and kind of prowly under all that houndstooth, with a sleek goatee framing that mouth Ronin seems to like kissing and sharp slanting cheekbones you could cut yourself touching. With those wolfish eyes and that exotic bone structure and those tousled curls tied sternly in place, he’s like a pen-and-ink sketch of Vlad the Impaler.
I don’t like the quiet confidence squaring his big shoulders and I don’t like the predatory instinct firing those sherry-colored eyes.
